9/7/12.  Friday.  And harvest begins at the estate.  Woke at 6am to be there just before 7.  Obtained more footage and stills than I needed, thankfully.  Even got a magnetic interview with out winemaker.  After the interview, he instructed me to follow him through the vineyard, to taste the clusters that weren’t picked for reasons specific.  He also showed me how location is everything, for clusters.  How if they’re close to a creek, that’ll affect the character, how if they’re more on the outside of a cordon, not shielded, that’ll have influences.  This morning was a burgeoning winemaker’s fantasy.  The morning air, more than addictive.  And Zach, the winemaker, told me that this is one of the most enjoyable parts of making wine, and that some don’t do what we did this morning, in walking the rows.  How could you not, I remember thinking.  Why would you not want that earliest of atmospheres around your shell, the setting set by low clouds, fog.

Went back home to see little Kerouac, get a mocha, then returned to tasting Room.  Tasted through some wines for a private tasting, then delivered some bottles to “SMI,” or Sonoma Mission Inn.  After that errand, the day dragged.  Posted some pictures to the other blog, and just watched the clock, thought of Monday’s class, the grading I have yet 2do.  Sipping a Syrah now, not at all impressed.  What did the winemaker do with this juice?  It tastes of balloons, watery blackberry, loud limpness.  But I’m still learning, that’s why I’m persisting with sips.  Hearing a winemaker talk of picking, harvest, vineyard presence this morning has me evermore secure in my winemaking aims.  Need to contact Kaz, secure my SB project.  But do I have time?  Have to make time, if it’s possible.  Maybe the winery will let me make something.  I don’t know.  I’m in a dream push, propelled by this first day of harvest.  Loved waking as early as I did, actually following through with my aim.  Going to do the same tomorrow, but with writing.  Or, I hope.  OR, maybe I shouldn’t.  Maybe I should sleep in.  Going to stop, sip, sink into thought, see what ferments.

Possibilities, all I’m seeing.  Not sure how much time I have free.  Maybe I have to drop the Kaz SB.  I just want to make wine, almost as much as I want 2 write.  The Chardonnay with Katie, TBD.  And her harvest just today lifted.  My wine, going to be the most literary, cinematic, artisanal bottled monologue ever concocted.  That’s what I want to do as an oenologist– move sippers; have them reflective, remembering; put into fed focus.  And this Syrah, not getting any better.  But I still sip, as I want its body in, on, in between memory.  Tomorrow, on mountain.  Should be intensely busy, and I need it 2B.  For the pages.  This blog, tiring me now.  No more wasting time on social media.. what does it do for the journals, the poems?  This devilish decent into the blog.. what is it doing for me?  Mood shift, you’ve noticed.  Still with that stash upstairs–or, what I have left of it, after dipping into it so many times for mochas, dinner runs like 2nite.  Have to make that work 4me.  Enough of this donated writing.  Need actual pages, just as Alice had some actual photographs made of Jack, beyond what she had on her phone, computer, social media accounts.  Mr. Capote didn’t have my qualms, quandaries in this progressive pool.  Should have been in his day.  Off to verse…  The Comp Book calls.  No more of these intended movements, throw away in screens.  Simple, more adored, in this screaming day, dramatic.  But it doesn’t have 2be.